A forthcoming illustrated poetry collection exploring some of our favourite British birds. This will feature poetry which brings each bird to life, its lifestyle and behaviour, song and calls, its relationship with humand past and present and in particular the folklore of the species.
Each bird will feature an illustration by a talented artist…
Part of a pencil drawing of a robin by Time Mason
Alongside the poem…
A Stanza from the poem – The Garden Sprite.
Fresh-turned soil, his pride of place,
The gardener’s mate with watchful grace,
A flit, a jink, a cock of head,
Then perches on the garden shed
I am still looking for a few more artists to collaborate with the project, if you would like to be considered please contact me using the contact form
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A few years ago I was taking a walk along an old abandoned railway track near where I live. Interestingly Queen Elizabeth once spent the night on this part of the railway on the royal train.
It was fairly early one fine spring morning and I was walking my dog. I looked over the hedge that separates the track from the small field beyond and caught sight of a fox lying in a bed of buttercups, presumably enjoying the early morning sunshine.
Praying that the dog stayed quiet I unhooked my camera from its holster and focused in on the animal. I was using a 500mm lens with autofocus and had forgotten, that morning, to turn off the focus achieved beep so, of course, as the fox was pinpointed the beep sounded,
In the quiet of the morning it sounded extremely loud. I don’t think it actually is, although it was clearly loud enough for the fox, at about 10m away, to hear. Just as I was ready it looked up and straight at me so that I could let the camera do its stuff on multiple release as the beautiful animal became fully alert, jumped up and trotted off to a greate distance, from where it looked back at me with utter disdain.
Sometimes luck plays a part in capturing good photographs.
A line of white weaves across the sky, a sinuous wave reflects the swell below. Drawn closer they resolve a chequerboard of ivory and sable, Rendered clear by gathering age.
Raucous din repeats, Noise washing over all. Males flex wings and raise sun washed heads to dance as if no-one sees. Or gather grass, uncaring close beneath our feet.
Azure ringed orbs Of midnight centred white. Black on black, survival’s legacy.
From circling sky a hunter falls, Plunging without fear. Wings back, legs tucked, A living fishing spear. To pierce the waves, to reach the depths, A thrust, a miss, so near.
the surface regained, Ungainly now, a fleeting loss of grace. An effort to reclaim the air, To pull, to climb, to soar once more. The hunter returns, the circle turns.
Copyright Steve Allanson February 2026
I often travel to Flamborough or Bempton in the breeding season to watch these magnificent birds. They are overshadowed in popularity by the delightful puffins but they deserve their own place in our consciousness.
Gannet in flight, Bempton, UK
In recent years, avian influenza has devastated gannet colonies across Britain. Survivors can be identified by the loss of the distinctive pale iris—their eyes turn entirely black. ‘Black on black, survival’s legacy.’
Majestic, striking, the gannet is a large bird and unafraid of humans. In fact, if you see them gathering nesting material along the clifftops at Bempton – mere feet from the crowds watching and filming them, you might come to the conclusion that they dismiss our presence as irrelevent.
In folklore they are often seen as messengers of the sea, signals – of course – of the presence of fish. They are seen as symbols of endurance and resilience, as well as of commitment. Their hunting dive is one of total resolve; spearing the sea at speeds of nearly 100 kilometres per hour. Their reinforced skulls absorb most of the impact but, nevertheless, as they age their eyesight can suffer from the repeated shocks.
There is a tale, which can be found in Adam Nicholson’s wonderful book “The Seabird’s Cry” which should, apocryphal or not, serve as a caution. It tells of a beach somewhere in the south of England where, when the tide is out, the exposed wet sand can appear from above as a continuation of the nearby open water. The gannets, apparently can make this mistake and dive to crash into the sand and injure or kill themselves.
The story tells of a man who, coming across an injured bird, picks it up in the hope of taking it somewhere for assistance. He sensibly took the head in his hand as he carried the bird, but was distracted by a dog yapping at his heels and let go – at the cost of an eye!
That beak is razor sharp.
Let’s hope the bird recovers from the impact of Bird Flu, and survives the other challeges we throw at it (Plastic in the sea, getting tangled in fishing gear, climate change) so that we may continue to admire it.
